The Game is Afoot
by tpel
Summary: We all know the character of Dr. House was inspired by Sherlock Holmes. But what if House actually got to meet Holmes . . . ? Not as silly as it sounds!
1. Prologue

Author's note: When I got the idea to do a House/Holmes crossover, I thought that (given the obvious parallels) there must be tons of them out there already. Surprisingly, a search revealed almost none. Perhaps other authors are deterred by the time-period difference. Were Sherlock Holmes a real person, as my fic supposes, having been born in 1854, he would have died long ago. But "time is not a fixed construct" on _House_, so I'm lopping off 50 years or so from Holmes' age . . . just enough to make it barely plausible that he could still be alive today.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Merry Christmas, Dr. House," Lisa Cuddy intoned, depositing a case file on the desk next to House's sneaker-clad feet.

House briefly glanced away from his magazine as he replied, "That's not what I asked Santa for, it's July, and, for an elf, you're showing a bit too much of the ho ho ho."

But Cuddy kept standing there, and when House surveyed her features he saw a trace of a grin beaming out from behind her professional facade. That, in itself, meant nothing; it was no secret that Cuddy enjoyed forcing House to actually work for his paycheck. But there was something different this time . . . what was it . . . ?

That's it: the grin wasn't evil. She wasn't busting his chops. She genuinely thought she was giving him something he would enjoy. Of course, that didn't mean she was correct in her assessment. People were constantly overestimating the interest value of the cases they brought him.

He flipped open the file, skimmed the list of symptoms on the first page of the intake summary, and frowned.

Banal. Boring.

Cuddy cut off the incipient whining with, "It's not _what_, this time, but _who_."

"Unless you've got Lindsay Lohan hiding behind the door . . ." he leered, tossing the file back onto the desk.

"Please. You're old enough to be her father."

"Well, this guy could be her great great grandfather. Which makes my diagnosis simple: he's _OLD_. Things start breaking down around the century mark."

"Just look at the name," said Cuddy, losing patience.

There was no name written in the usual place, on the tab at the top of the folder. House started to point this out, but Cuddy cut him off with, "It's inside, to protect his privacy."

When House located the appropriate line on the appropriate form, his eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. Cuddy smirked with glee at his momentary speechlessness.

"I . . . I thought . . . Isn't he dead? And in England?" Then cynicism kicked in: "Are you sure this isn't just some crazy old man who _says_ he's the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"He has a passport." She turned to leave, then paused and tossed over her shoulder, "Also, the people who brought him in are the daughter and grandson of a Dr. John Watson . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

This really is just a teaser – Sorry! I'll need to do some medical research in order to write the actual story, so it may take a while. But I thought I'd post this little introductory scene, and see what people think of it.


	2. Brushing Up on the History

I should have mentioned at the outset that this fic takes place before "No Reason" – so no shooting, no ketamine, etc. Also, lest one think that we must choose between pretending that Holmes is a real person and having him be the subject of books that the _House_ characters might have read, I am following the conceit that Holmes was a real detective, whose exploits were made famous through the stories Watson published.

XXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Cameron entered the workroom, just ahead of Chase, to find that Foreman and, surprisingly, Dr. House were already present. Foreman was seated at the table, studying a file, while House poked around the coffee area, as if touching each object on the counter would increase its appeal.

Cameron noticed that the whiteboard on which their current patient's symptoms were written now bore the title, "The Speckled Hand." A few feet away, another whiteboard had been erected, with "The Dying Detective" scrawled across the top. She and Chase reacted simultaneously:

Cameron: "Has Mrs. Stoneham's rash spread to her hands?"

Chase: "We have another case?"

House looked at Cameron and replied, unhelpfully, "Dramatic license." To Chase he said in a put-upon voice, "Dr. Cuddy seems to think that four fully qualified doctors ought to be able to handle two patients simultaneously. I've argued the point before, but she's not budging."

Foreman finally looked up from the file and blurted, "It's Sherlock Holmes. Our new patient is Sherlock Holmes."

That explained the goofy case titles on the whiteboards (_The Speckled . . . Band? Was that it?_), and the fact that House's demeanor was cheerful, bordering on giddy.

Chase drawled, "Is he really 'Dying'?"

"We're all dying," House replied with mock solemnity, convincing Cameron that the happier her boss was, the less informative he was.

Foreman supplied, "His vitals are pretty good, for a 101-year-old: multi-system deterioration, but fairly stable. He presented complaining of problems with concentration and balance. History of osteoarthritis, migraine, cardiomyopathy, and possible short-term memory loss."

"Medications?" Cameron asked.

"Just OTC pain relievers for the arthritis, Enalapril and aspirin for the heart, and Royal Jelly for everything else," House recited, smirking at the last item.

"I'd say an allergic reaction to bee products," Chase put in, "but it's not clear that there are any symptoms that actually need to be explained."

House responded brightly, "He's a beekeeper. Collects the Royal Jelly himself. If he were allergic to bees he wouldn't be dizzy, he'd be dead."

"Chase has a point," Foreman pursued, "What, exactly, is the mystery here? With the arthritis and general weakness, ambulation is labored and unsteady. Add in the decline in cardiac function, and you've got times when he's not getting enough oxygen to his brain. All this could easily lead to loss of balance. And half of people over 85 have dementia to some degree. Memory loss, then difficulty concentrating – that's a pretty normal progression."

"He came all the way to New Jersey for _this_?" said Chase.

House pouted, as if Foreman and Chase were deliberately trying to poke holes in his fun.

Cameron smiled sympathetically, but before she could think of something positive to contribute, Dr. Cuddy strode in through the glass doors, saying, "He didn't come to Jersey for a diagnosis. He's been visiting with a family near Trenton for the last month or so, and they finally convinced him to go see a doctor. We just happened to be it. But we're not going to be _it_ much longer if you don't get down there and examine him. He's threatening to leave."

"Fine," House ordered: "Foreman, assess the good detective's cognitive status: memory, attention, whatever else you can think of. Cameron, talk to the family. If he'd taken a spill, at his age, he would have broken something; no fractures means no falls. So, his balance isn't that bad. The other symptoms don't warrant going to a clinic here rather than going to his own doc across the pond when he gets home. Find out why they _really_ brought him in." Looking at Chase, he continued, "You keep Mrs. Speckled Hand from tanking until her test results are back."

"And you'll be . . . ?" Cuddy inquired.

"Brushing up on the history, of course," House grinned, pulling a worn copy of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ from his bag.

Cuddy gazed heavenward and shook her head, sighing. Was it even worth the effort to argue with him?

"What? It was written by a doctor, you know."

_No, definitely not worth the effort . . ._

XXXXXXXXXX

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman walked together down the hall, heading off to perform their respective tasks.

"So, House is a Sherlock Holmes fan," Chase chuckled.

Foreman snarked back, "Ya think?"

"It makes sense," Cameron reasoned, "Normal doctors idolize other doctors: Marcus Welby, the ER physician, your own family doctor. Not House. He goes for someone who solves puzzles."

"You had a thing for Marcus Welby?" Chase teased.

Cameron ignored him. "The point is, most of us wanted to be healers. House wants to investigate mysteries. Coldly; analytically – like Sherlock Holmes."

"20 bucks says House goes to talk to Holmes," challenged Foreman.

Cameron shook her head, "Uh uh. The fact that he admires Holmes will make him want to keep his distance – no attachments clouding his judgment. He'll treat him like any other patient."

Foreman countered, "He'll be too curious. He won't be able to resist."

When Chase didn't offer an opinion, Foreman prompted, "What do you think?"

After a moment, Chase frowned slightly and replied, "I think it depends on how much of the old fellow's mind there is left. Which is what you're going to find out."

XXXXXXXXXX

Foreman knocked on the door, then he and Cameron entered the room. Although he would rather not admit it to his colleagues, he was definitely psyched about this case. Sherlock Holmes! It wasn't every day that you got to meet, and treat, one of your childhood heroes. Who said this job didn't have perks?

The last thing he wanted to do, though, was invite further comparisons between himself and Dr. House. Chase and Cameron wouldn't understand that his admiration for Holmes was different than their boss'. Sure, as a kid, he'd enjoyed the mystery element of the detective's adventures. But that was never the main draw for him – the character of Holmes was.

It was hard to say why. Holmes was, by no reasonable adolescent standard, cool: he used prissy language, was whiter than wonder bread, never got the girl, and let his sidekick carry the gun. Yet, somehow, despite all this, Holmes was heroic in ways that Foreman had found appealingly different from what he encountered in his own life. Holmes kicked ass . . . but rarely resorted to literal violence. He bested the bad guys with his brain and his unwavering determination. He was scrupulously moral, yet not especially religious (sorry Dad!). He always outwitted the criminals (and the cops!), but he wasn't merely a tool of "the man": sometimes, just sometimes, he let the perpetrator get away – when that was the right thing to do.

And now, here he was, 10 feet away from the pair of doctors. At retirement Holmes had dropped completely out of the public eye. Naturally, Foreman wouldn't have recognized him from the simple ink drawings in the books or the occasional photograph snapped half a century ago. The man before him was gaunt, nearly skeletal, but he sat upright in a chair, arms folded neatly across his chest. There was a fringe of smoke colored hair at his temples that drifted into lighter wisps across the crown, contrasting with the deeper gray of his eyes. It was the eyes that gave an impression of vitality to the still, faded form: they were beyond alert, scanning incisively, taking in everything yet expressing little.

One thing they were expressing, however, was impatience. Cameron apparently picked up on this and was characteristically apologetic as she made introductions: "Good morning. I'm Dr. Cameron, and this is Dr. Foreman. We're sorry to have kept you waiting. I understand that you came in yesterday afternoon, but the diagnostics department just got the case today."

A woman in her 50s and a younger man, perhaps 25 or 30, sat and stood, respectively, nearby, but it was Holmes who replied in a clear cultured British accent, "It is not that I have another pressing engagement to which I must attend; rather, I am simply afraid that this is a waste of all of our time. There is but one cure, that I know if, for old age."

Foreman smiled, pleased to confirm that there was indeed "somebody home" inside the elderly detective. Then he got down to business: "True, we can't cure everything. But we may be able to help with your current symptoms. I'm a neurologist. I'll assess whether something in your brain is causing your concentration and balance difficulties."

Holmes nodded, seeming to accept this, so Foreman went on, "I need to give you some cognitive tests to see what's what. It would be easier to do that in the neurology department office, if you're feeling up to it."

"I may be ancient, but I'm not an invalid," Holmes grumbled. He looked to his side, where a pair of wooden canes leaned against the wall. Just beyond them sat a metal wheelchair. "How far?" he inquired.

"Three corridors, the length of this one. It's on another floor, but we can take the elevator."

That apparently decided the matter. Holmes reached out a long arm and pulled the wheelchair toward him. He locked the near side of the chair, paused for a moment, then lifted to his feet, and transferred himself to the wheelchair. Foreman noticed that, during the maneuver, the young man moved closer to, but did not touch, the detective. When Holmes was seated, the young man helped him gather up his canes to bring along.

Foreman offered, "You can come with, if you like, Mr. . . ?"

"Oh! Pardon me," Holmes exclaimed, "These are Mrs. Elizabeth Linzer and her son, Matthew Linzer. I have been enjoying their hospitality these past weeks, and came to your clinic at their behest." The last bit was accompanied by a trace of a sardonic smirk in the direction of Mrs. Linzer, who smiled mildly in return.

Foreman reiterated, "You're welcome to come along, Mr. Linzer, though I'll probably send you back after we're settled."

Matthew agreed, and the trio headed toward the door. Foreman felt pleased with his own foresight. If the stories were accurate, Holmes was a proud man. Though he didn't seem to mind using a wheelchair when expedient, Foreman figured that letting him save face by having his friend push him (rather than the doctor he just met) might pay off in terms of cooperation during the long battery of tests ahead. Additionally, it had the benefit of . . .

Holmes interrupted Foreman's self-congratulations by remarking jauntily on the very benefit that the neurologist had in mind: "I suppose it is a coincidence that Elizabeth will be left alone with your, ah," he turned back to face the women, "Dr. Cameron, for a short time, and then joined by Matthew before I return?"

As the three men resumed their progress out the door, Foreman grinned and replied, "Total coincidence. Do you object?"

"Not at all. It's a perfectly reasonable method for interviewing witnesses . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

When the others were gone, Cameron spent a few minutes answering general questions from Mrs. Linzer. Then, broaching the subject she'd come to discuss, she smiled at the older woman and said, "Why don't you tell me when the symptoms began?"

"I don't know, exactly. I hadn't seen much of Uncle Sherlock for the last few years. I've lived in the States since University – my husband is American. We visit cousins near Sussex most summers, and usually we arrange to see Uncle during those trips, but that amounts to just a few hours. Matthew is much closer to him. They write back and forth and Matty goes out to visit him sometimes. He says that Uncle's seemed OK until this trip."

"Why did Mr. Holmes come to visit your family here?"

"A storm damaged his roof and he needed to move out during repairs. Mildred, my cousin, offered – reluctantly, I think – that he could stay with her family. But I'm afraid he finds the lot of them rather . . . 'insipid' was the word he used. Of course he could've just rented a flat, maybe asked the housekeeper to come along, or hired other help. But then we got the idea that he could come here, and I guess that appealed to him – he hadn't been to America in forty years – or maybe he was just humoring my son."

"He must have been feeling pretty healthy to consider embarking on an international airplane trip at his age," Cameron remarked.

"That's just it," the older woman said, looking pensive, "He's never been timid; quite the opposite. But once he arrived at our home, he refused to go outside. At first I thought it might be jet lag, but it was more than that: he was withdrawn, hardly speaking for weeks, refusing to tell us what was wrong. I knew from my father that he was prone to moods, but I was worried that he didn't seem to be snapping out of it . . ."

". . . And then he did."

"Just like that?" Cameron asked.

"My Matthew graduated from law school, and Uncle managed to rouse himself enough to attend the ceremony. He seemed quite unwell that day, but the next day Matty cajoled him into taking a walk around the neighborhood, using the wheelchair. After that, they went out every morning for several days, until Matty's internship started. According to Matthew, he conversed normally while they were out. He also became somewhat better with the rest of us at home, though, honestly, he's never had much use for my husband, and he and I generally just exchange pleasantries."

Cameron felt a surge of warmth for this woman who showed such concern for a cantankerous senior who wasn't even really a family member. "I suppose he didn't deal well with your son's absence, once the internship began?"

"At first he seemed to take it in stride. They'd discovered a small coffee shop on their walks that made a decent cup of tea. He decided he would go there a few mornings a week to read the newspapers and work on his book. I'd drop him off and he'd take a cab home. That worked well for a few days, and I figured the problem was solved: he was used to being independent, when he'd had some space in the morning, he was able to be more sociable in the evening, mostly listening to Matty talk about his new work."

"Then one day it got to be noon and he hadn't come home yet. I was just about to go check on him, when the cab pulled up. A waitress from the coffee shop was with Uncle. He looked terrible – pale, shaking, unfocussed. The young lady explained that he'd called for a cab, as usual, and then went outside to wait for it. He must have wandered off. She saw the cab come and go, through the window, and started to worry. She knew that he couldn't have walked far, so she went looking, and found him around the block. He was confused and upset, couldn't tell her where he was going or even his name. Fortunately, the cab company had a record . . . "

Matthew arrived back in the room while his mother was speaking. He nodded at the women, and sat down quietly to wait his turn. With his curly brown hair, shy smile, and baby-face, he struck Cameron as way too innocent to be a lawyer – a characteristic which, Cameron mused, was probably quite advantageous for a lawyer to have.

Addressing the son, Cameron asked, "Have you noticed him being forgetful or losing track of things?"

"No. Not really," Matthew replied, then grinned at his mother, "Mom looses stuff all the time; Uncle almost never does."

"It's true," Mrs. Linzer admitted, laughing softly, "He found my car keys for me yesterday morning."

Thinking it over, Matthew added, "It does sometimes take him a while to remember things, or maybe he just can't _say_ what he remembers. For instance, he'll want me to get him something, but he can't tell me where it is. Then he'll get it himself, with no problems."

"Has this started recently?"

"No, I don't think so. It's maybe worse now, but he's also not in his own house."

"Think back to when you first met him, and compare that to now," Cameron instructed.

"Well, I guess I met him when I was a little kid, but I don't remember much of him until around the time my grandfather died – I was about fourteen then – we went to stay in Sussex for the summer."

Mrs. Linzer clarified, "Father's health had been declining, when Mother suddenly became ill and passed away before him. Uncle Sherlock convinced Father to move in with him at his farm. That's where Father spent the last year of his life."

With a self-effacing smile, Matthew began, "I used to kind of think he was omniscient . . ."

----- ----- -----

_Overnight at the farm while Mom and Dad went back to the cousins. Waking up before dawn to sounds in the hall: the night nurse's voice, colored with regret more than alarm. Creaking floorboards as Grandfather's friend, Holmes, went down the hall to Grandfather's room._

_Standing outside the sickroom, I couldn't see Grandfather's face; the tall old man was in the way. Hadn't made a sound, but Holmes heard anyway, turned around. Now Grandfather was in view – cheeks puffy and flushed, gaze held enthralled by something near the ceiling. Something that wasn't there. _

_Knowing, suddenly, what was happening, but couldn't let myself think it. Gray eyes unavoidable – flicking toward the man on the bed, then back to me, confirming the truth. Holmes speaking, voice less sharp than usual: "Come say good morning to your Grandfather, Matthew." _

_Going up to the bed, hugging Grandfather, though I was a bit too old for that, whispering, "Good morning." Grandfather's eyes moving down to my face, no less enthralled, filled with wordless delight for a long moment before starting to dim._

_Holmes ushering me out of the room, "Miss Simpson will call your parents presently. I want you to go downstairs and wait with her. Go on now, there's a good lad."_

_Lingering in the doorway, watching as alarm crept into Grandfather's expression. Holmes turning back to the bed. A weak hand reaching up to clasp the bony wrist. Holmes sitting down on the edge of the bed, speaking quietly, confidently, words I couldn't make out. Serenity washing over Grandfather's features . . . _

----- ----- -----

". . . now I know better. But I think that's more a matter of me growing up than him deteriorating."

After a short pause, he continued, "Really, the biggest difference I've noticed is that now he can't focus on anything for long. A couple of years ago, I told him about an obscure legal loophole I'd discovered and asked him if he knew of any precedents in the British system. He researched it obsessively for seven hours straight. The housekeeper was cross with me for getting him riled up. Even last summer, he was still doing complicated chemical experiments, and trying to learn how to use a computer. Now, I've got the draft of his latest monograph all scanned in, and paper copies for him to edit, but he can't concentrate for more than a few minutes – not long enough to make progress, which frustrates him a lot."

Mrs. Linzer put in, "I suppose we should have warned your colleague: when Uncle gets frustrated, he can be . . . difficult."

Cameron smirked, wanting to tell them that Foreman had plenty of experience dealing with "difficult" geniuses. Instead, she reassured them, "Dr. Foreman is a professional. I'm sure he and Mr. Holmes will get along just fine."

XXXXXXXXXX

"This appears to be a positively useless task."

"It's not," Foreman explained patiently, "As I said, the tests in this section measure your ability to retrieve words."

"By naming animals that begin with the letter "R"? That's just silly," Holmes complained.

Time to play dirty, Foreman decided. "Retrieval speed often declines with age, so you may not be able to name many in the allotted time. Two or three would be fine. If you don't think you can do that, we can move on to the next part."

Clearly annoyed, though probably not fooled by Foreman's ploy, the old man sighed, "Very well . . ."

"Wait," Foreman interjected, "We've messed up the time parameters by discussing it. So, switch to animals beginning with the letter 'C'."

"Very well . . . carp, centipede, cheetah, chameleon, chimpanzee . . ."

Two minutes and twenty-two animal species later, Foreman realized that the animals were listed in alphabetic order. He grinned. A well known limitation of tests designed to measure cognitive decline was that, having been normed on average abilities, they were less informative when applied to individuals of low, or, in this case, very high baseline intelligence.

Still, Foreman had gleaned some information from the tests he'd administered so far. Holmes excelled at tasks that could be completed quickly. The more challenging the task, the better (to find something suitably challenging, Foreman supplemented the test materials with a wicked hard Sudoku). The detective's reasoning skills, vocabulary, and long-term memory would be outstanding even for someone half his age. However, in all areas, his performance deteriorated rapidly after five to eight minutes, usually resulting in him refusing to continue the task. Frequent breaks helped; additionally, they gave Foreman opportunities to assess the older man's balance while walking and to perform other physical exams.

Short-term memory was proving tricky to assess. Holmes was relentlessly oriented to what was going on at any given moment, never appearing confused about what he was doing. He did well on questions about actions he'd witnessed in the recent past, but there was some hesitancy there, which contrasted with his speed and fluency on long-term memory tasks. As for his ability to memorize lists of words or numbers, the bread and butter of short-term memory evaluation, Foreman had no data; Holmes flatly refused to participate in any such tests.

One more try can't hurt. Goading hadn't worked before. Perhaps pleading would. For all his crankiness, the old man had a good sense of humor and seemed positively inclined toward Foreman. So, Foreman whipped out a list of words and cajoled, "Come on – last test. Humor me?"

Holmes kept a poker face, just quirking an eyebrow.

Foreman continued, "I can winnow it down to three lists: one of words, one of numbers, and one of nonsense syllables. You'll be out of here in twenty minutes."

"I'm not sure why you think I find your company so disagreeable that I would be desperate to leave. But, regardless, I have no interest in cluttering my mind with trivia."

"The test items may be trivial, but their _purpose_ isn't," Foreman said.

"Nevertheless, I have always made it a point not to learn useless information – information which might rob storage space that could be used for more important matters."

"You know, neurologically speaking, there really isn't any data to support that position," Foreman argued, "Human brains don't fill up. Not even if you live to be a hundred . . . and ten."

Holmes cracked a slight smile at the end of that sentence, but stubbornly maintained, "It is a method that has served me well. I do not intend to abandon it."

Foreman sighed. Irrational people weren't all that hard to deal with: you try to figure out the causes of their behavior, and act in their best interest. And reasonable people? Well, you can reason with them. But highly rational people with pockets of irrationality – how can you deal with that?

XXXXXXXXXX

Wilson ducked in through House's office door, smiling broadly, and said, "I hear the game is afoot."

Apparently _a propos_ of nothing House responded, "What could a canary trainer do to make himself notorious?" As he spoke, he attempted to spin his red ball on the top of his cane. His eyes were on the ball, rather than on Wilson.

Unphased by the odd question, Wilson shot back, "Train evil canaries?"

"Evil how? They're canaries, not pit bulls. What are they gonna do? Crap on your car?" The ball spun off onto the desk.

Wilson picked up the ball and tossed it to House. "Maybe he trains them to wait until you've just washed your car . . ."

Catching the ball, House overlapped with, "Or maybe they hold their breath and let the miners die."

"Or . . . they carry little canary-sized bombs and . . . blow up Sylvester?" Wilson threw out, running out of ideas. "Uh, am I supposed to know what the hell we're talking about?"

"You should – he's an ancestor of yours."

"Oooh-kay . . ."

"'Wilson the Notorious Canary Trainer' – Watson mentions the case in passing, but never wrote the story."

"Well, maybe there is no case. Maybe it was a joke."

House's eyes bugged out in a show of stunned betrayal. "No. It couldn't be!" he gasped.

"I don't know," said Wilson, "But – Hey! Guess what? I bet if we looked real hard – and by 'looked real hard' I mean 'asked your team for the room number' – we could find somebody who might know."

"You're grumpy because I didn't call you for a consult. Sorry Jimmy, but I'm afraid the patient _doesn't_ have cancer."

"He's a hundred years old. There's got to be at least a few cancerous cells lurking in there somewhere. But that's not the point. The point is that you have Sherlock Holmes downstairs and you're up here quibbling over canaries."

"You want to know why I haven't gone to visit him?"

Wilson nodded, "Uh huh."

"Does nobody in this hospital have anything better to do than psychoanalyze me?"

Wilson shook his head and smirked, "Nope."

"Since when do I need a reason _not_ to see a patient? It's really kind of my default setting."

"Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll just make up some answers for myself," Wilson threatened, then went on in a vaguely Cameron-ish voice, "You're afraid you'll get attached and lose your objectivity. You don't want to be around someone who might be smarter than you. You have daddy-issues and want to distance yourself from someone you see as an older version of you. Stop me if I hit a nerve."

"Oh, we're way past that," House growled.

Wilson could tell that House had reached his saturation point: he would either give in to Wilson's prying, or he wouldn't, and they'd talk about something else. The oncologist waited curiously to see which way it would go.

House rolled the ball between the heel of his hand and his forehead. After a long moment, he said, "He's going to be boring."

Wilson teased, "Ah, so, you get countless hours of enjoyment from reading about the guy's adventures, and you're miffed that he couldn't _also_ come up with an interesting disease for you to diagnose?"

"I knew his _case_ would be boring when I took it," House muttered.

House didn't sound bored or petulant, just kind of sad. Wilson wasn't quite sure what to make of this.

House went on, "Have you ever met an interesting baby? They're cute, maybe amusing, but they're not interesting. Most adults aren't interesting either, though a few, maybe one in a million or billion, are. Then they get old, and the things that set them apart, made them special, fade away."

"Old people can't be interesting?"

House shrugged, but didn't answer.

"He's not a drooling incompetent, you know," Wilson put in, "Cameron said he's lucid and intelligent; cognition is very well-preserved for his age."

"His mind used to be a perfect analytic machine. That's what made him unique. It's a big step down from 'freakin' genius' to 'well-preserved for his age'."

House's tone was a peculiar mixture of sympathy and disgust. Wilson was torn between being touched that House actually seemed distressed about another human being's plight and wanting to reach out and shove House's skewed world-view into alignment with reality. How could he make his friend see that this was not a tragedy? A big percentage of House's cases, and a bigger percentage of Wilson's, were, indeed, tragic. Catching a bizarre illness that no one can diagnose, having the cells of your own body become the enemy and having to resort to poisoning yourself to stop their spread – these things were truly awful. Slowing down a bit on the high side of a hundred? Not so much.

Faced with the futility of changing House's mind about . . . well . . . anything, Wilson offered, "You know, maybe the notoriety is separate from the canary training. Like, he's a serial killer . . . who also happens to train canaries. The desire to make small birds do your bidding has got to be a symptom of some kind of social pathology."

"Or," House suggested, grinning, "It's like _The Birds_, but with canaries . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

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	3. Eliminating the Impossible

Finally – another chapter!

XXXXXXXXXX

"I assure you, I am not the least bit claustrophobic," Holmes remarked, once again giving Foreman the impression that the old man could read his mind.

The two of them were waiting outside the MRI, and had been doing so for 45 minutes past their scheduled appointment time. The results of the morning's cognitive tests hadn't impressed Dr. House. But the fact that Holmes reported feeling off-balance even when sitting or lying down, yet was not nauseous or light headed, was weird enough to pique the diagnostician's interest. Hence, the MRI. Since Holmes didn't exhibit symptoms that would indicate a large tumor or structural defect, Foreman guessed he would be looking for something subtle, something that might require a long time to find. Being stuck inside an MRI tube is no fun, and he didn't want to stress the elderly detective's weak heart any more than necessary, so he'd given him a light dose of Valium as a precaution. With the machine backed up, Foreman was concerned the drug would wear off before they were finished. Holmes apparently did not share this concern. Of course, that might be the Valium talking . . .

Foreman replied, "I'm not suggesting that you are. It's just that many people find MRIs unpleasant. Kind of like being locked inside a big, noisy coffin."

Holmes chuckled, "I once spent several hours inside a coffin."

He didn't elaborate, but he looked like he wouldn't mind doing so. Foreman raised his eyebrows quizzically, and prompted, "Yeah?"

Holmes began, "I was contacted by a gentleman who'd had the misfortune of losing both his sister and his maiden aunt within the span of a week. He described a disturbing turn of events: a pair of pearl earrings that his sister had worn at her funeral, and that he'd believed had gone with her to her grave, turned up in the ears of their late aunt's corpse a few days later, at her wake. Being not quite certain that they were the very same earrings, and being suspicious of the whole matter, he had the jewelry appraised. The earrings were found to be not genuine pearls, but cheap facsimiles. The puzzling part of the situation, of course, was the fact that arrangements for the two women were handled by different establishments . . ."

Fifteen minutes later, Foreman was positioning Holmes in the finally-available MRI, as the detective finished up his tale, " . . . Although within an hour I had overheard enough of the funeral home workers' conversation to discern the nature and extent of their operation, I couldn't very well pop up out of the coffin in their midst. So, I waited through the night for the shift change at dawn, then made my escape."

Foreman grinned, "Weren't you worried that they might, uh, bury you?"

"The thought did cross my mind. Which is why I'd arranged for Watson to come to the chief undertaker's office, if he had not heard from me by a particular time. He was to bluster about a terrible mistake in the hospital, and then pretend to revive me. It's something of a pity that this wasn't necessary, as I think he was rather looking forward to declaring someone 'alive' instead of the opposite."

Holmes' expression had become slightly wistful, then it changed to apprehensive as Foreman strapped him in and immobilized his head. He didn't complain, but Foreman gathered that he wasn't too keen on being handled and restrained. To diffuse the tension, Foreman joked, "It's alright. No premature burials happening on my watch. You've got nothing to worry about . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Clear."

_Thump_. Electricity hitting the heart, pushing it to wake up and perform its job. One strong artificially-fueled contraction and then . . .

"Nothing."

The failing muscle refused to be roused. Instead of jolting it to life, the burst of energy exacted its toll: a holocaust of a few hundred cells.

"One mig of atropine. Charging to 350."

"Clear."

_Thump_. The brutal bolt sparked a memory of motion. Or a desire to avoid further punishment . . .

"Got a rhythm! It's tachy, but it's there."

Chase lowered the paddles just as Dr. House entered the room. House commented dryly, "You were supposed to keep her from tanking."

Chase muttered, "Kind of what I just did," then went on to report, "Mrs. Stoneham's respiration deteriorated through the morning, but I had her stabilized on 50 oxygen. She was awake, complaining of back pain. Then she crashed: pulmonary edema got worse, resulting in cardiac arrest."

"Labs?" House inquired.

"The cultures came back negative, and the antibiotics aren't helping, so it's not bacterial. Negative for every virus we've tried."

As he spoke, Chase drained fluid from his patient's lungs. House furrowed his brow and looked thoughtful for a moment, like he had something to say that might be immediately essential. But instead of sharing such wisdom, he said cryptically, "Eliminate the impossible . . ." then turned and left the room.

_That's my cue to tag along, like a puppy who knows he might get kicked but follows anyway. _Chase gave orders for Mrs. Stoneham's care, then caught up with House as the older man limped down the hall. With his audience present again, House finished, ". . . and what's left, however improbable, is the truth. Start testing for toxins."

"But we eliminated environmental causes. No one else in her home, or in the other places she frequents, is sick. And she's not getting better in the hospital, she's getting worse."

"Time to un-eliminate them."

As Chase threw out some diagnostic suggestions, which House promptly shot down, he realized that they weren't heading toward their department. Having become accustomed to his boss' habits, he wasn't surprised to find that their path led to the MRI, and Foreman. When they arrived, the neurologist had apparently just finished with the machine and was beginning to wheel Mr. Holmes back to his room.

House began bluntly, "Mrs. Hand needs a house call. I'd go during visiting hours, if I were you. The family is _extra_-clingy."

"Mind telling me what I'm looking for? I thought we'd ruled out environmental."

"Oh, you know, the usual: methamphetamine, PCP, the fun mushrooms . . ."

Foreman argued tiredly, "She's not hallucinating . . ."

". . . which would make finding those things really cool," said House, who promptly lost interest in the conversation and stalked off down the hall.

Chase noted that during the entire transaction House barely glanced at Holmes, though Holmes, in contrast, scrutinized House and even jotted down a few words in a small notebook. When House had left, Holmes commented, "That would be your supervisor, I presume?"

Foreman responded, "Yeah. Sorry. I would have introduced you, but Dr. House is very . . ."

"Rude?" Chase interjected.

The old man did not appear bothered by House's lack of regard. He smiled enigmatically as he said, "One wants to be the top priority of one's waiter and of the man who drive's one's cab. But being of lesser priority to my doctor could be interpreted as meaning that some other poor soul is closer to death than I am, which, at my age, I find somewhat reassuring."

"Or it could mean that _General Hospital_ is on," Chase snarked under his breath, earning a glare from Foreman. As a peace offering, he volunteered, "Want me to take Mr. Holmes back to his room while you go break into a 62-year-old grandmother's sewing-room-slash-meth-lab?"

This did not appease Foreman; in fact, it annoyed him further: "Yes, let's discuss my upcoming felony in front of a patient, especially one whose profession was solving crimes."

Chase had observed that Foreman's reactions to House's breaking-and-entering demands varied considerably. Sometimes he didn't seem to care, other times it rankled him: indignation tinged with guilt. The Australian doctor hadn't really bothered to study the pattern of such reactions, but he gathered from his colleague's irritability that this particular case fell into the latter category.

Holmes, on the other hand, responded amiably, "I am not, nor have I ever been, in the employ of any law enforcement agency." Then he went on, his eyes bright with amused curiosity, "Might I ask for what purpose you illicitly search your patients' homes? And whether I should, perhaps, get Matthew to leave you a key?"

Chase grinned. Foreman smiled briefly, then looked down as he explained, "Sometimes there's evidence in the home that points to the cause of the symptoms: medications, mold, toxins, that sort of thing"

Chase added, "Dr. House prefers to have us look without informing the patients so nobody has a chance to clean up or hide contraband. Plus, he just likes making Foreman break into houses – the man's got talent."

Once again, Foreman glared, which amused Chase. But there was something about the way Foreman quickly looked away that told Chase that he might be bothering the neurologist more than he'd intended. Was Foreman actually embarrassed? Chase tried to remember if he'd ever seen Foreman embarrassed.

Before Chase could push it further, Holmes addressed Foreman quietly, "From my extensive experience with illegal endeavors and those who commit them, I have concluded that it is possible for one to engage in criminal activities without thereby becoming a criminal. The intention is at least as significant as the action."

Foreman's eyes widened in surprise at this statement. Homes' sincere expression morphed into a wry smile as he continued, "Naturally, I may be biased in this perception. You don't think I knocked on the door of the funeral home and explained to the proprietors that I wished to spy on their employees, do you?"

Chase had no idea what the old man was talking about, but Foreman broke into a big grin.

XXXXXXXXXX

House got up from his chair as the credits were rolling to an end. He hop-stepped over to turn off the television, pleased that he'd passed the hour blissfully undisturbed. It had taken many a moon, but he'd finally impressed upon his fellows that they were not to interrupt the soap opera unless there was an emergency – and that he adhered to a very strict definition of the word 'emergency'.

With the TV off, he heard the door to the outer office open. Unfamiliar voices sounded in the doorway. Grabbing his cane, House went out to investigate. Just inside the glass doors he found Mr. Holmes, seated in a wheelchair, accompanied by a young man, presumably the grandson. They seemed to be having a disagreement over how to proceed.

When House approached, Holmes looked up at him, then directed his companion, "You may tell your mother that I am with my doctor."

The young man accepted his dismissal with equanimity, shooting House a glance of bemused apology before withdrawing. Once alone with House, Holmes turned his attention to the two whiteboards. He cocked his head toward the one with his own symptoms. As his eyes scanned the title, his lips quirked into a half-smile and he remarked dryly, "Dying? Not very optimistic, are we?"

House shrugged, "I like to set the bar low."

Before House could resolve his conflicting desires to tell the guy to get the hell out of here and to ask for his autograph, Holmes began propelling his wheelchair . . . directly toward House's office. The words '_where do you think you're going?_' seemed trite. As for '_why?_', House was curious enough to follow along and see.

Holmes entered the office first. House closed the door behind them, then walked over to perch against the edge of the desk. The fact that Holmes had sent the grandson away and proceeded into the relatively secluded inner office would seem to indicate that he wanted to speak to House in private, perhaps to reveal some information that he didn't want the family to know. House began to doubt this hypothesis when Holmes showed more interest in the furniture and other items on the floor than he did in the doctor he'd supposedly come to consult.

After a minute of intensely studying the surroundings, Holmes locked his wheelchair and winced as he reached around behind him to retrieve the canes that were attached there. Without so much as a glance at House, he levered himself to his feet and began walking across the room, veering around a chair and a pile of journals that were in his path. The thick, long, navy blue robe he wore over his hospital pajamas gave him a measure of visual substance, but he was so thin and angular that he looked like a strong gust of wind could blow him away. This impression was reinforced by the fact that he leaned – not stooped – forward slightly as he walked, as if walking into a storm or hiking up an incline. Otherwise, he placed his canes confidently and his gait was surprisingly steady.

Holmes reached the glass door that led out to the balcony. After a little fiddling, he managed to get the door open. He carefully stepped over the raised doorstep and went out onto the balcony.

"If throwing yourself off my balcony is your idea of a suicide attempt, I'm going to be very disappointed," House said, more to himself than to the detective. Although the height would be insufficient to kill most people, he had to admit that it might be enough to finish off a centenarian. Still, he would expect more originality from Sherlock Holmes.

House followed the old man outside and saw that he was making no move to hurl himself onto the pavement below. Instead, he leaned against the front wall of the balcony and fished a pipe out of the pocket of his robe.

House felt amusement bubbling up inside him, but tried to smother it with a dollop of offence. The detective wasn't seeking medical counsel; he was just looking for a place to light up! _What does my balcony look like, the smoking section?_ Aloud, he challenged, "And you're sure I'm OK with this because . . ."

"You have not smoked cigarettes for many years, but you are not averse to other forms of tobacco. Additionally, you enjoy disregarding rules and flouting authority. Permitting me to smoke on hospital grounds would be an opportunity to do so," Holmes supplied matter-of-factly.

Instead of replying directly, House inspected his own hands, noting the slight flattening between two fingers and the subtle remnant of a yellow tint. He looked over his clothing for several seconds before finding a spot on the hem of his jacket that bore the half-moon pattern of a cigar burn.

Holmes followed his progress with his eyes and nodded his approval, which pleased House more than he thought it should. So he countered with, "I'm no rebel. I'm as meek as a lamb, as tractable as a lemming . . ."

"Your attire says otherwise."

"That just proves I'm a slob. I get away with it because I'm brilliant and charming."

"And your choice of footwear?" Holmes said, becoming more animated as he warmed up to the debate.

"Purely practical," House shot back, holding up his cane and giving it a twirl.

Smirking, Homes argued, "Your disability might explain the fact that you wear trainers to work, but it doesn't explain the fact that you wear _those_ trainers."

Both men's gaze drifted down to House's silver-and-red trimmed sneakers. House couldn't help but chuckle, "Maybe I'm color-blind?"

"No, you are not. But that is not germane to the issue of whether you will obstruct me from enjoying my vice." Holmes gestured with his pipe.

House answered by stepping back inside his office, picking up a folding chair with his left hand, and maneuvering it out onto the balcony. He set it up next to the wall against which Holmes leaned, so that the old man could use the solid structure to help himself sit down and stand up. Holmes nodded his thanks, sat down, and set his arthritic hands to carefully packing a pinch of tobacco. House left him to it.

XXXXXXXXXX

Wilson rummaged about the cupboards in the kitchenette of the Diagnostics department, looking for packets of sugar he could steal. Or rather, steal back.

He didn't care if House caught him doing this – that was sort of the point of their little game. But he would prefer it if House's team didn't walk in right at this moment. He could picture their reactions: Cameron would offer to help him find the sugar, and then present a variety of other sweetening options, which would make him feel like an idiot. Foreman would roll his eyes and make some polite yet vaguely condescending comment, which would also make him feel like an idiot. Chase would smirk and go about his business, which actually would be just fine.

But Wilson would bet against the laconic Aussie arriving first. The three of them normally trooped in about ten minutes past the hour, when they figured House's post-soap Vicodin had time to kick in. According to House, Foreman, and especially Cameron, sometimes skimped on that buffer zone, but Chase almost never did. Speaking of House, Wilson thought he heard signs of life coming from behind the closed office door. He could go investigate, but decided to sit and enjoy his coffee, complete with repatriated sugar, instead. House would emerge soon enough.

Wilson had just seated himself at the table when House came out of his office, dry swallowing a pill as he walked. The oncologist began, "I helped myself to a white powdery substance from your cupboard. I hope to God it's sugar."

House looked startled, then guarded. Then, slowly, a conspiratorial smile spread across his face.

"What?" said Wilson.

"Sherlock Holmes is smoking his pipe on my balcony."

Wilson laughed out loud, "You're kidding."

House shook his head, grinning like a twelve-year-old who just met Batman on the bus.

"You're not kidding?" Wilson grinned back, pleased that House's pensive mood of a few hours ago had subsided into goofiness.

House gestured with his head toward his office. Wilson took this as an invitation. He walked over to House's office and, with exaggerated care, leaned into the doorway to take a peek. He saw that there was, indeed, someone on the balcony, and he smelled pipe tobacco burning. He laughed again, "You're not kidding," then sobered as he came back to the table, "Wait a minute – you're letting him _smoke_? When we discussed the fact that he doesn't have cancer, I didn't mean I wanted you to give it to him."

House snorted, "He's been smoking longer than most people have been breathing. You want him to quit _now_? Anyway, my money's on his heart, and probably his kidneys, kicking out before his lungs do."

"Hey, you know what else smoking is bad for? Your heart."

"Ehh," House shrugged, "for all we know the nicotine is the only thing keeping it going."

Wilson wasn't seriously advocating for trying to stop Holmes from smoking. What he really wanted to do was pump House for information about how the detective came to be on his balcony. Unfortunately, right on schedule, House's team started filtering in.

Without preamble, Foreman slapped some MRI films up on the light box, while Chase and Cameron continued the conversation they'd apparently been engaged in on the way:

"Her primary symptoms are respiratory," Cameron said, "What about allergens?"

"If it's something airborne, she should be getting better here. And the respiratory distress is the most serious symptom, but the rash preceded it."

"Maybe the allergic reaction triggered an underlying condition . . ."

House made his way over to the MRI slides; Wilson followed, then Chase and Cameron. To Foreman, House inquired, "What've you got?"

"As expected, there's no global atrophy that would point to Alzheimer's. There's evidence of several micro-infarcts . . ."

House dismissed, "Standard wear and tear."

"We don't see many hundred-year-old brains for comparison, but, yeah, it's probably typical," Foreman agreed.

Pointing at one of the images House said, "Look at the hippocampus."

"Uh huh. There's more lesions than I would've expected, given his minimal memory impairment," Foreman commented, "Actually, the scan doesn't do much to clarify the clinical picture: it over-explains the mild slowing of short-term memory retrieval, yet there's nothing here to explain the more significant attention and balance issues."

"The infarcts could be the early stages of vascular dementia," Cameron suggested "That would account for the confusion and inattention."

"Very early," House put in, "At this rate he'll have a VaD diagnosis when he's a hundred and twelve."

"Plus, he's not confused," Foreman argued, a touch of impatience in his tone.

Cameron shot back, "He got lost waiting for a cab. That's confusion."

"That's one episode. Otherwise, he's completely oriented. It's not dementia," said Foreman.

Wilson decided to step into the fray with, "If that's really the only instance of confusion, maybe he just got turned around in a strange city and panicked."

From their expressions, Wilson could tell that Foreman and House weren't too keen about this theory, but Cameron admitted, "The symptoms Mrs. Linzer described are consistent with the aftermath of a panic attack."

Chase finally chimed in with, "A TIA. We know he's had some minor infarcts. Maybe he was having one then. That would account for the disorientation. Other symptoms might've been mild and cleared up before he came to the clinic."

Foreman nodded approvingly, "After the fact, there's no way to tell how recent any of the infarcts are, especially when they're this size. But a TIA in progress would explain acute temporary confusion."

"A TIA is a kind of stroke, is it not?" came a voice from behind them, "I don't recall ever having a stroke."

Wilson jumped, then suppressed a grin at the startled looks on Chase, Cameron, and Foreman's faces. Holmes must have come out of House's office and wheeled up quietly to join the group. House answered smoothly, "That's what you can expect to remember when you've had a stroke."

Foreman clarified, "Often people have Transient Ischemic Attacks without being aware they are having them. You might have experienced them as short periods – maybe less than an hour – of disorientation and weakness, and, because of the brain involvement, you might not remember them at all afterwards."

"Could that be the cause of my current difficulties?" Holmes asked.

Foreman shook his head, "Doubtful. Strokes are often accompanied by loss of balance and concentration. But even if you had one recently, it would be unlikely that those symptoms would persist without any other neurological symptoms."

House's expression was hard to read. Wilson knew how his friend felt about having patients present during the differential diagnosis process. Holmes wasn't doing any of the things that typically set House off: he wasn't emotionally overwrought, there was no reason to think he was lying, and his questions weren't stupid. Still, the oncologist wondered how long before House said something rude to get rid of him.

It was Cameron, however, who addressed the issue, asking Holmes, "Can we, uh, help you with something?"

The old man paused reflectively for a moment, then replied, "No. No thank-you. I believe I've achieved what I came here for."

House sniffed, lips quirking into a quick smirk, while his team, who probably believed that Holmes had just entered the department while they were gathered around the MRI slides, looked puzzled at what Holmes thought he'd 'achieved'."

Holmes began slowly wheeling himself in the direction of the exit. He stopped in front of the whiteboards and chuckled softly. He turned his head back toward the doctors, as if ready to make a comment, but then glanced back toward the exit and House's office door and said nothing. As Holmes continued toward the exit, Cameron apparently thought better of letting a frail patient wander around the hospital unaided and offered assistance in getting back to his room.

"That's quite all right," Holmes responded, "Matthew and his mother are a tad overprotective. I expect he will intercept me before I need to travel too far."

Foreman said, "I'll go with you. Even if the TIAs aren't the cause of your symptoms, we should discuss measures to reduce your risk of having a more severe stroke."

Foreman and Holmes left. Wilson became aware that House had been watching the detective intently from behind and continued to stare at the spot where Holmes' wheelchair had stopped. House frowned contemplatively for several seconds, then ordered Cameron and Chase, "Get me a clean room."

"For . . . for Mrs. Stoneham?" Chase asked. Wilson shared his sense of whiplash. They'd all been focused on Holmes, but the request made more sense if it were meant for the other patient.

House replied, "Nope. But he's only going to need it for an hour or two. She can use it when he's finished, if Foreman doesn't find her 'stash'."

'_Well, that clarifies . . . nothing._' Wilson mused.

XXXXXXXXXX

I'm sorry for the slow updating; I'm afraid it's my nature. Thanks so much for all your encouraging reviews! I appreciate the feedback. Shinriko – the alphabetizing goof is probably a sign of neurological deterioration, but I'm afraid it's mine, not Holmes' :-) GranTorino – nah, I couldn't keep House and Holmes apart forever, that would be cruel! Speaking of cruel, I think this is the closest I've ever come to writing a cliffhanger . . .


	4. The Art of Detection

Finally – an update! 

XXXXXXXXXX

The present carries upon it the imprint of the past. This is especially evident in the case of people: their experiences become etched into the fabric of their being, so that one need only study their faces, their hands, their clothes, their mannerisms, and a roadmap of the paths they've traveled in life manifests itself.

The man across the table from Holmes presented an intriguing text for study. He wasn't yet fifty years, but he might seem older to a more casual observer. The placement of the lines on his face showed that he was given to dramatic expressions more than subtle ones, exaggerating the sweep of an eyebrow or the pull of a frown, distracting from the hard intelligence glittering in his eyes. Although at the moment he was fairly comfortable, pain had been his companion long enough and often enough that it informed the set of his shoulders and hemmed in his movements even when absent. A sedentary life did not come naturally to him: his fidgeting was like the bobbing of a balloon tethered to the ground.

Despite the fact that he had consciously dispensed with the trappings of his line of work, Holmes could have picked him out of a crowd as a medical man. The physical signs were not as obvious as they would be in a doctor of Holmes' youth. His clothing did not smell of ointments and medicines, and his fingertips only faintly showed the distinctive calluses that one gets from preparing injections. It was clear that even among physicians of the current era he did not engage in much direct patient care. But there had been a stethoscope around his neck not long ago, and, more telling, he had the clinical gaze of one who understands humans for the biological machines that they truly are.

Holmes was curious about why the doctor wanted to distance himself from his own profession. But he felt his ability to attend to the subject waning and he preferred to shift his thoughts elsewhere voluntarily before his recalcitrant brain made the decision for him. So, he began examining the room into which he'd been brought. A "clean room," he'd heard it called. Well, it certainly lived up to its name: white walls, crisp white sheets on the bed, shiny sterile tiles on the floor. Nothing in the room bore even the slightest scuff or trace of dust; in fact, everything seemed to be composed of materials that were specifically chosen to repel such blemishes. The room was a blank slate, one that would resist all attempts to record its history upon it.

For some reason, this made Holmes feel uneasy. His unease increased when the doctor looked at him and regret flashed briefly across blue eyes . . .

XXXXXXXXXX

_A clean room? OK, that makes no sense whatsoever. _

Foreman had returned from his field trip to the Stoneham residence to find the team nowhere in sight. A page to Cameron elicited the information that Mr. Holmes was in one of the clean rooms with Dr. House, and that she and Chase were observing. As to _what_ they were observing, Foreman was at a loss.

In diagnostic medicine, clean rooms were most commonly used to evaluate environmental allergies: eliminate all possible allergens, then slowly reintroduce and wait for a reaction. While it was true that Holmes' difficulties coincided with a change in environment, he showed no symptoms that would suggest an allergy. Nor was his immune system particularly depressed – the other use for a clean room. That left the possibility that House planned to initiate some treatment that might compromise the detective's immune system and was placing him in a sterile environment proactively.

'_I suppose I should be happy he's taking precautions,'_ Foreman thought with a sigh, _'At least I'm not coming back to find he's scheduled exploratory surgery.'_

To be fair, thus far House had shown uncharacteristic restraint in their diagnosis of the detective. It made sense: Holmes' symptoms were not life threatening, and, at his age, the risk of him dying from a hastily chosen treatment or invasive diagnostic procedure was significant. _'Maybe House doesn't want to be known as the guy who killed Sherlock Holmes . . .'_

That thought caused Foreman to smile as he approached the corridor where Chase and Cameron were waiting. And arguing:

"We need to stop this. He's just torturing him now," said Cameron, her voice brittle.

"I think we should wait," Chase countered, "let him finish the test."

"What test?" Foreman asked.

Both of his colleagues looked away uncomfortably; neither stepped up with an answer. Foreman peered through the observation window into the clean room and understood why: House was doing a memory exam with Holmes, an exam similar to one that Foreman had already performed. "What – he doesn't trust me? He thinks I botched the test?"

"I'm sure . . ." Cameron began, then cut off as all three of them were distracted by the sound of House's voice from within the room. Through the window, House and Holmes were visible in profile, sitting with a small table between them.

"And now for the six-million dollar question," House announced with the verve of an over-caffeinated game-show host, "what action did you see me do five minutes ago?"

No reply.

"I'll give you a hint: it involved that cup." House pointed to a plastic cup on the nightstand next to the bed.

Holmes studied the cup and the nightstand, but he said nothing.

"C'mon," House taunted, "How many things could I have done with a cup? Take a guess."

Holmes tightened his already pursed lips and replied stiffly, "I do not _guess_," spitting the last word with distaste.

"I'm waiting," said House with mock cheerfulness.

"I am not interested in your childish game," Holmes responded, strain belying his attempt at an imperious tone.

House leaned forward slightly and challenged, "Then tell me who came into the room with us earlier. Was it Dr. Foreman, or Dr. Cameron, or the nurse?"

Holmes looked to the door, focusing on the doorknob for a long moment; then he scanned the floor in front of the door. He gazed up at the window through which Foreman, Cameron, and Chase watched, but probably couldn't see much since the lights in the corridor were dimmer than the light within the room.

Foreman, however, was able to see the anxiety, near panic, within the detective's eyes. That was enough to move him to intervene. He tried the door, but found it was locked from the inside. Swearing softly, he turned back to the window.

Upon hearing the doorknob rattle, Holmes had glanced again at the door. House quickly recaptured his attention. Leaning forward slightly, his previously jokey demeanor completely absent, House spoke intensely, "It's not a game. It's not trivial. How could it not be important for you to know who was in the room with you?"

Unable to meet the doctor's eyes, Holmes said nothing. House prodded once more, quietly, "Can you tell me who it was?"

After a long moment, the old man shook his head. His voice a tremulous whisper, he admitted, "I don't know . . . I can't remember."

XXXXXXXXXX

Twenty minutes later, House was in the department workroom, eagerly awaiting Foreman's return. Since the encounter with Holmes, Cameron was giving him the cold shoulder and Chase was pretending that nothing had happened. That covered passive-aggressive and passive; now he just needed aggressive. Judging by the look Foreman had given him when House opened the clean room door, he was pretty sure he'd have that covered.

Foreman was a guy who took pride in his capacity for self-control – equated it with dignity, professionalism, and all that crap. Given this, House naturally found picking at that control, poking at it until it cracked, irresistibly tempting. Now, in one fell swoop, he'd traumatized Foreman's favorite patient and called into question the neurologist's cognitive evaluation skills. Bingo! Way better than even a primo racial jibe.

To Foreman's credit, after the initial withering glare he had completely ignored House and focused on their patient. Holmes had become unresponsive, so Foreman went about examining him to make sure he wasn't having a stroke. He couldn't get much out of the detective out in the hallway, so he went with him back to his room. House wasn't really worried. Contrary to persistent rumors spread by Wilson, it was virtually impossible to talk somebody into a stroke. And House _had_ been monitoring Holmes' condition during the interview – respiration and pulse were elevated, but not dangerously so. In any case, if there were any kind of acute medical crisis going on, they would have been paged by now.

_( . . . long gnarled hands crumpled loosely in the old man's lap, not even trying to guide the wheelchair, unresisting as Foreman felt for a pulse, gaze averted, staring vacantly at a world made cloudy by humiliation . . . )_

House shook off the memory. Yep, a spat with Foreman would really hit the spot about now. And here it comes: three, two, one –

"What the hell –" Foreman began, coming through the door of the Diagnostics department, but House cut him off with:

"So, what's the dirt on the Hand household?" (A spat deferred is a spat prolonged.)

At Foreman's momentary distraction, House added, "Yeah, you want to talk about _him_, but I already know what's going on with him, and I don't know what you've learned about _her_, ergo . . ."

Foreman reported in clipped tones, "The home is meticulously clean and the maid service has been through twice since she was admitted. No mold, no unaccounted for prescription medications. Went to the community center she frequents – again, nothing unusual. But one of her friends there said that Mrs. Stoneham was having frequent indigestion about a month ago. More recently, they had an accident with their kiln in the arts and crafts room and Mrs. Stoneham and some other women suffered respiratory distress from the smoke. All of them recovered quickly, and the others are fine now."

House re-wrote Mrs. Stoneham's symptoms on the whiteboard, in order of appearance, with question marks next to the newly added gastroenteritis and smoke-induced respiratory distress indicating that it was unclear that these were part of the same disease process.

Chase groaned, "That's the problem with elderly patients – too many symptoms. We already weren't sure whether the rash was related."

Cameron rolled her eyes, "Yes, it's so inconvenient when a patient is actually ill. The variety of symptoms spread over time could point to something systemic, like lupus. Or, if it really did start with the gastrointestinal problems, maybe celiac disease. That fits with the rash and the mild anemia."

House followed Foreman's gaze over from the whiteboard they were currently discussing to the whiteboard bearing Holmes' symptoms – where House had changed "mild short-term memory retrieval delay" to "severe short-term memory loss." Foreman pointed at this, fuming, and said, "No way."

"He missed seven of the eight test items. I'd say that's pretty severe."

Foreman shot back, "Yeah, well, surprisingly, he did much better when I tested him this morning. That means one of us screwed up. Unless the patient is psychic or the examiner is grossly incompetent, you can't get a falsely inflated score on a memory test. But it's pretty damn easy to get a false low, if you bully the patient."

"Oh, relax. I don't think you're _grossly_ incompetent," House smirked, "And I wouldn't say you screwed up the test so much as he cheated on it. Then again, the examiner is supposed to prevent cheating, so I guess in a way you did screw up . . ."

"My examination procedure was valid! You, on the other hand, got him so rattled that he couldn't concentrate!"

"Does he strike you as particularly _fragile_?" House challenged, his voice tinged with sarcasm and something more. "The guy stares down the Hound of the Baskervilles, but I'm a little bit mean to him and he just falls apart?"

Foreman didn't have an immediate reply. In the ensuing pause, Wilson put in, "Um, here's a thought: maybe we don't want to use stories that took place fifty years ago, and might've been embellished for publication, as our baseline."

_(What's Wilson doing here? Oh, right – I was supposed to buy him dinner. An hour ago . . .)_

House went on, ignoring Wilson, "He didn't flunk the test because he was upset; he was upset because he flunked the test."

"OK, so, why?" said Chase "Why did he do better before, but poorly now? Is his condition deteriorating?"

"The answer to why he flunked now is easy: his memory sucks. Why did he do better on Foreman's test? Like I said, he cheated."

"Which means he was able to correctly answer questions about things he didn't really remember?" Cameron queried, doubtfully.

"Yup," House replied. He went over to their female patient's whiteboard, and erased the "H" from the title, so that it now read, "The Speckled and." Then he sat down at the table and made a show of twiddling his thumbs. The three fellows and Wilson stared at him blankly. House then asked, "What just happened?"

"You erased a letter," Chase volunteered.

"How do you know?"

"We just saw you do it."

"You saw it, and you remember it. Suppose you forgot what you saw, how would you know?"

"He wouldn't know," Foreman interjected, scowling, "That's what forgetting means."

"No. Forgetting means you don't _remember_ what happened, it doesn't mean you don't _know_ what happened. How else could you know?"

"I could ask Cameron," Chase offered, with a slight smile.

"Yes, but then Cameron would know that your brain is turning to mush. Not very attractive."

Chase's smile turned into a wry chuckle, and Cameron grinned, saying, "If you knew the name of the story, you could guess that somebody erased a letter."

"Ah, but who?" said House, "That's the mystery."

He got up and paced, contemplating aloud, "One might observe that the handwriting on the boards is all the same and hypothesize that the writer is also the eraser. Cursory handwriting analysis reveals that the writer is male and right-handed, which eliminates Cameron and Wilson. The height at which the writer wrote indicates a tall person, over six feet. Not bad, but not conclusive, since I could be the writer, but one of you naughty kids did the erasing . . . What else? The ink on the lower portion of the board still has a strong smell, which shows that the writing was recent, yet the erasure must have taken place still later, as some of the letters directly below the missing "H" are smudged. Inspecting the indentations in the carpet, one sees that the most recent ones in front of the board include distinctive round marks about the size of a quarter. Too big to be from Cameron's heels, but a perfect match for . . ." He flipped his cane upside down to reveal the circular base, then concluded, rubbing at the blue ink that had come off on the inside of his wrist, "Caught red – or should I say, blue – handed!"

House's final flourish was met with a resounding "WTF?" expression on the faces of his colleagues. He clarified, "Hey, I didn't say _you_ could figure all this out, but our _patient_ can. Unless we stick him in a clean room where there are no clues to follow."

Foreman was the first to react. He brushed his hand across his face and said, "OK, fine, Holmes uses his incredible powers of deduction . . . to fake out a memory test? What's the point of that?"

"He uses them to live!" House retorted, with surprising fierceness, "Every minute of every day, he substitutes inference for recollection. Lots of old folks do it, to a point, when they start becoming a little forgetful: the teaspoon is in the sink, therefore I must have taken my medicine. But for most people this strategy can't surmount profound memory impairment. Sherlock Holmes isn't most people."

Foreman, now sounding more pensive than pissed, said, "So . . . he doesn't know he's doing it? Or he knows but didn't see fit to mention it, even though we're trying to diagnose a neurological problem?"

"Denial is a beautiful thing," House shrugged, "Or maybe he's embarrassed. Who knows? But it leaves us with two questions: 'What causes severe short-term memory loss, as well as problems with concentration and balance?' and 'What else doesn't he want us to know about?'"

"Neurosyphilis," Chase suggested.

"Answers both for the price of one. Nice. Who wants to go badger the old guy about his sex life?"

"No need," said Foreman, "We have his blood and he gave blanket permission to do any tests we need. RPR comes back positive, then we talk."

"RPR comes back positive, then we treat," House amended, "Treatment's safer than doing the spinal tap to confirm the diagnosis. What else?"

"Drugs," said Cameron, "Long term abuse can cause memory and concentration problems."

Foreman laughed, "Uh, everybody on the planet knows he did drugs. I don't think he's trying to hide that from us."

"We don't know how much or how recently," Chase put in.

"Yeah, we do, more or less," said Foreman, "I took a history." Looking through his notes, he reported, "His drug of choice was cocaine, by injection, fairly dilute, used sporadically – lots for several days or weeks, then nothing for weeks or months. Less often, he used morphine, and on occasion he smoked opium. Heaviest usage was when he was in his thirties and forties. He said that by the time he retired, he had cut back to the point where he was using 'extremely rarely' and he's had nothing for 'almost seventeen years'."

House inquired, "Chase, when was the last time you smoked pot? If you have to look at your watch, you're fired."

Chase grinned nervously, "You're serious?"

"Uh huh."

"Med school. No, it was after that. I don't know – it's been a while."

"See, if you're not an addict, you don't remember. 'Almost seventeen years' seems a little too precise for someone who'd supposedly practically quit three decades prior."

Wilson snarked under his breath, "When did you take _your_ last dose?"

"What's that?" House said, flipping open his amber prescription bottle and popping a pill into his mouth.

"You want to get a drug test?" asked Foreman, then smirked, adding, "I mean, for the patient."

"No point. He's not dumb enough to bring drugs on an airplane, and I don't see the grandson scoring them for him on the streets of Trenton. So we know he's been clean for at least a month. But I want to know what happened seventeen years ago."

"I'll ask him," Wilson volunteered.

House figured that Wilson had some ulterior motive, but he was happy to take advantage of his friend's ability to mollify and manage patients. "Allrighty then: Wilson chats with the detective, Chase starts Mrs. And on steroids and prepares to biopsy her small intestine for celiac, Cameron handles the RPR. Foreman, I want you to track down any MRI, CT, PET scan, or x-ray that's been taken of Holmes' head in the last thirty years. Some doctor along the way's gotta have thought it would be cool to take a picture of Sherlock Holmes' brain. Better get cracking – it's almost midnight in London."

As the others began filtering out to do their jobs, House gloated, "Looks like I've got time to review more of the 'history'." He flipped through some DVDs in his satchel and called out to Wilson, who was almost out the door: "Hey, find out who he thinks is better – Rathbone or Brett!"

XXXXXXXXXX

Against the secure backdrop of piano and cello, the violin soared. Each sweep of the bow drew a whirlwind of sound, flinging notes into the ether with reckless abandon. But, truly, there was nothing reckless about it: every movement was perfectly modulated, shaping the charged atmosphere into a creation of exquisite beauty – all the more wonderful for its impermanence.

Holmes, listening from his hospital bed, no longer had the strength or dexterity to play a violin. Yet, he could feel the music flowing through his hands and arms into his chest, simultaneously invigorating his spirit and setting him at peace. The day had been tiring, to say the least, but his mind was too active for sleep. Alone, at last, he could let the auditory bliss transport him . . .

But he was not alone any longer. A shadow flickered outside his closed eyelids, a sensation of proximity. At the end of the piece he opened his eyes, reached over to the tiny digital music machine in its speaker-stand on the table by the bed, turned it off, and asked pointedly, "Can I help you?"

The doctor standing next to the bed apologized, "I, uh, I'm sorry to interrupt."

This courtesy tempered Holmes' irritation. He replied, gesturing toward a couple of notebook pages (written in Matthew's hand) next to the music player, "Not at all. Should I wish to pick up where I left off, I have rather detailed directions for how to operate this device." His hint of a fond smile quickly turned sardonic as he added, "Though, frankly, I will probably just start again at the beginning. One of the few perks of a failing memory is that I don't much mind hearing the same thing over again."

The doctor quirked an eyebrow at his candor. Holmes did not recall this particular doctor, which was disconcerting, as he'd made an effort to memorize the names of the group working on his case. In his professional career, he'd often had need to commit complicated information to memory, and though his brain no longer seemed inclined to record the traces of everyday events, he could, through concentrated effort (aided by written notes and mnemonics), retain selected facts. There was the neurologist, Dr. Foreman, and the supervisor . . . _Homes_ . . . _Houses_ . . . House. The girl and the Australian, given enough time he could dig out their names. But this doctor was completely unfamiliar. Other than the immediately obvious facts – such as that he was married (but not happily), was on the governing board of the hospital, and had taken some schooling in Canada – Holmes knew nothing of him, not even whether they had previously met.

Of course, simply asking whether they'd met before was out of the question. Holmes put on an expectant expression and waited for the younger man to supply the information. He did, in the form of an introduction: "I'm Dr. Wilson. I've come to ask you some questions about your medical history."

There was nothing of the well-meaning patronization that some people inflict on the elderly in Dr. Wilson's speech, so Holmes discerned that this was, in fact, their first formal meeting, not a re-introduction. He responded accordingly, "Oh. So I shouldn't read anything into the fact that they've sent an oncologist to talk to me?"

Holmes could practically see the wheels turning behind the doctor's eyes: _'How did he know I'm an oncologist? What clues would let somebody figure out which specialty a doctor practiced . . .'_ He refrained from laughing but couldn't quite suppress a smirk as he nodded down at the ID badge clipped to the man's lab coat. Dr. Wilson chuckled affably, then replied, "No, we've had no indications of cancer. I'm a friend of Dr. House's and I help out the team sometimes."

Ready to get on with it, Holmes prompted, "And your questions . . ?"

Dr. Wilson tactfully broached the issue of whether Holmes had been entirely truthful in his account of his drug usage, explaining that cocaine abuse could be responsible for the neurological symptoms, particularly if he had not stopped using when he said he did.

Holmes was amused rather than offended. "I was, in fact, telling the whole truth: I have indulged in a negligible amount of narcotics in the latter half of my life, and none in nearly seventeen years. However, if you do not believe me, I have no idea how to convince you."

"Perhaps you could tell me the circumstances under which you stopped using," Wilson requested.

"Very well. You may be aware that my dear friend Dr. Watson strongly disapproved of my resorting to the cocaine bottle. He was ahead of his time in this concern, as compelling medical evidence of its harmful long-term effects did not appear until considerably later."

"He convinced you to cut back?" There was something oddly hopeful in the doctor's demeanor.

"More like he motivated me to convince _him_ that I had cut back," Holmes admitted ruefully, "However, I suppose his entreaties did cause me to pay more attention to the mounting evidence. Additionally, while cocaine had been illegal since the early part of the century, it was not considered a 'problem drug' in need of vigorous enforcement until the 50s or 60s. I found, as time went on, that obtaining it required me to associate with elements of society whom I found distasteful."

"You quit because it was illegal and unhealthy?"

Holmes picked up on the skepticism in the younger man's voice and mused, "It is paradoxical, I agree. When I was working, I used cocaine to tide me over the dull patches between cases. One would think that with retirement I would have _more_ need for such artificial stimulation, not less. Of course, I could never abide the prospect of needing anything . . ."

_(A long time ago, yet the dull aching emptiness felt oppressively real. Couldn't say whether the void was out in the world or inside myself. The needle would bring relief, would inject color into the cold gray lines . . . _

_No. Not today. Today I'd made it out to the sitting room. Watson reading the London Times aloud, a litany of predictable acts by pedestrian minds. But every now and again he'd throw in some utterly implausible event as if it were a news article. Face composed, voice even, a twinkle in his kind eyes: 'Just seeing if you're listening, old chap.')_

"In any case," Holmes continued, "when I decided to shake off the hold the drug had on me, my comrade was there to help me through the process . . . more than once. Eventually, I learned how much and under what conditions I could imbibe without sending myself into a downward spiral."

"But seventeen years ago you quit altogether?"

"Correct."

At the doctor's nod and encouraging expression, Holmes elaborated, "Watson came to reside with me during his final illness. It would have been inconsiderate for me to indulge during those months . . ."

_(Late evenings by the fire. Watson rarely complained, but his tense pallor bespoke discomfort edging into agony. _

'_Shall I call for the nurse?' – my question a mere formality: getting the nurse would delay relief, remind us both where all this was headed. _

_At his gesture, filling the syringe from the prescription bottle. Looking for a vein, the familiar jab: 'Have I remarked upon the fact that you are benefiting from the skills I developed through my detestable habit?' _

_Grinning around gritted teeth, his reply: 'Yes, as a matter of fact, repeatedly.')_

". . . After he passed, I found that I no longer had the will to inject myself with anything." Hearing the heaviness in his own voice, Holmes added off-handedly, "With my arthritis, manipulating a needle was getting to be a chore anyway."

Looking into his interlocutor's eyes, Holmes saw not disbelief but dissatisfaction. The doctor wanted, needed, something from him, and he ought to be able to figure out what it was. The pieces were there, he was sure of it – intolerable that he couldn't put them together! But his mind was wandering, being pulled off track by images and emotions from the past, being further distracted by the persistent sensation of imbalance, as if the world were constantly trying to slide out from under him. He tried to force himself to focus, to call up hypotheses that fit the relevant facts, but as soon as he laid one piece of information before him he felt the others slipping away.

Holmes gave in and reluctantly let a small amount of the fatigue and distress he was feeling show on his face. The doctor hastily wrapped up the conversation and bid him good night. Many minutes later Holmes fumbled wearily for his music.

XXXXXXXXXX

The pizza was cold, but Wilson grabbed a piece anyway. House had been engrossed in a movie when the oncologist arrived at his apartment, a far-fetched tale that pitted Sherlock Holmes and a bumbling Dr. Watson against Nazis. House informed him that the plot was considered "non-cannon" – which meant, basically, false. Apparently the detective, his chronicler, and the latter's estate had consistently refrained from either endorsing these movies or suing the producers. Wilson concluded that Watson must have subscribed to the theory that any publicity is good publicity, or else he must've had a great sense of humor, to leave such a portrayal uncontested.

The movie came to an end. House clicked the TV off with the remote. He didn't change his lounging posture, but swiveled his head toward Wilson and asked, without preamble, "So?"

"For what it's worth, I believe him. I think he's telling the truth about when he stopped using drugs."

"Of course he's telling the truth. I wanna know what happened seventeen years ago."

"What do you mean, 'Of course he's telling the truth'? Everybody lies . . . except Nazi-whupping cocaine addicts?"

"Duh. And he quit then because?"

"In honor of his friend's memory, as far as I can tell."

"Damn."

"Why 'damn'?"

"I was hoping for something like 'he started forgetting things and figured shooting up wasn't helping matters' or 'his buddy croaked and, lacking a note-taker, he realized that his memory was shot' – that would give us a timeline on the memory loss, and might mean it's separate from the balance and concentration issues."

Not only would it give them a timeline, Wilson thought, but a long one, which might indicate a static condition or, at least, a slowly progressing one. He might be overestimating House's humanity, but he liked to think that his friend would be rooting for that. Unfortunately, Wilson had no evidence to share that would bolster House's hypothesis. And he hadn't gleaned any information that would help House in other ways, either. He berated himself, '_What the hell did I expect, directions?_'

Apparently, he'd sat introspecting too long, because House was fixing him with an inquisitive stare.

Finally, Wilson vented, "It doesn't make sense! People don't just scale back their rampant drug abuse and use a tiny bit once in a while, then quit for good many years later. He gave perfectly sensible reasons for cutting back – reasons that would be perfectly unpersuasive to someone in the throes of an addiction."

House looked at him for a long moment with something akin to sympathy, then smirked, "OK, fine. At your deathbed I'll promise to give up Vicodin."

Wilson snorted, "Oh, right, like I'm going to die before you. Wanna compare liver panels?"

"Jealous husband could come home with a shotgun."

Wilson, unwilling to let House maneuver him into the topic of his supposed infidelity, shot back, "Yeah, I think you're way ahead of me in the inciting-death-by-violence category, too. There's the usual suspects: Cuddy, disgruntled clinic patients. And after today, Forman might start rounding up his homies to get even with you."

House grinned, hauling himself to his feet and limping over to switch the disks in the DVD player. Flopping back down onto the couch, he pointed out, "Know what the great thing about deathbed promises is? Don't have to keep 'em."

"What? Of course you do."

"Other guy's dead! What's he gonna do about it?"

"I could haunt you, you know . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

Thank-you to all of you who are sticking with this story, especially to my kind reviewers!


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